Page 117 of Quiet Beautiful Things

My plan is working. Stay calm.

Tara pulls a coffee cup from the dish rack and sets it before him. He eyes it, then her. “I’ll make it, sweetheart.” He gets up, puts his gun in the front of his pants, kisses Tara on the cheek, then crosses the kitchen and gets the freshly brewed pot of coffee. He turns back to me with the same sinister smile from minutes ago. “The coffee’s for you.”

Before I can wrap my mind around what’s happening, he grabs my right arm below the elbow, forces it palm-down on the table and pours hot coffee on it. I’m screaming and thrashing around, but I’m no match for his strength. And just when I think I’m going to pass out from the pain, he does it again with my left hand.

When the pot is empty, he backs away. I’m shaking. My pants are wet; not from coffee, but the release of my bladder. My hands are a shade of red I’ve never seen, and the pain surrounds me like a heavy blanket I can’t shed. Even my throat is burning, but that must be from my screaming.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tara jumping onto Grant’s back. They tussle and he throws her to the ground, gun pointed at her. But I can’t think about that. I can’t think about anything but the pain. Death must be less painful, and right now, it’s what I’m wishing for. It’s the last thought that goes through my mind before my head swims in dizziness and I see the table come up to meet my face.

Then everything goes black and there’s no more pain.

Chapter Forty-two

Blake

I’ve driven around long enough. Screw my idea to give her space and hope she comes around. What if she takes off like Lissa? I’m not going to let that happen. I’m going to get through to her.

I park in the lot of her building and look up at her window, trying to find the words that will break down her barriers. Because apparently,I love youwasn’t enough. But the longer I sit here, the more anxious I get. I just need to man up and do it.

I exit the car and walk to her building. I think I hear someone scream. It alarms me, but when I don’t hear it again, I continue to the outer door. I stare at the security keypad. Texting her won’t work. She probably won’t let me up. I tug on the door, wondering if with enough force, I can open it. I’m surprised when it opens immediately. Upon further investigation, the lock has been broken and the wood around it splintered. I guess someone else was in my same predicament.

I’m thanking my lucky stars until I hear a second scream. Okay, now I know I wasn’t hearing things. My whole body is on high alert. It was definitely a woman. I doubt it’s coming from Ellie’s apartment, but I take the steps two at a time anyway.

When I get to her door and hear a blood-curdling scream that pierces the very center of my being, I try her door. It’s locked.

Two neighbors come into the hallway, having heard the screams. “Call the police!” I yell. Then I step back and with all my might, I kick in her door.

“Ellie!” I yell out of sheer terror.

A big motherfucker of a man comes from the kitchen and points a gun at me, growling, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Where’s Ellie?” I ask, my eyes darting around the room hoping to see her. Praying that whatever is going on here is one big mistake.

The guy scoffs as if amused, not seeming disturbed in the least that I just busted down the door. “You mean my cunt of a daughter who thought she could hide my wife from me?”

Grant Lucas. Oh, holy shit.And he’s got a gun pointed at me. But that’s not what worries me the most. What worries me is the silence. There are no more screams.Is she dead?

My heart stops cold, fear burning a trail throughout my body, and for one tortuous moment, I get a taste of what Dallas must have endured.

A flash of someone coming from behind him gives me hope. But it’s not Ellie. I have no idea who the woman is who just threw herself on his back. As he attempts to buck her off, the gun fires, followed by a searing pain in my thigh.

The pain isn’t enough to keep me from charging him and barreling him to the ground. The gun goes flying. But there’s another holstered to his side. We each struggle to get control of it when he goes limp. My ears ring at the sound of another gunshot in close range. I quickly check myself for a second wound when I see blood pooling on the ground. But as the color drains from Grant’s face, I know I wasn’t the one shot this time.

The woman holding the gun drops it and collapses onto the ground into a fetal position.

“Where’s Ellie?” I shout through a ball of sawdust in my throat. The seconds I spend waiting for the woman to answer are nothing but pure agony.

Sirens sound in the distance as the woman points to the kitchen. “I… I t-tried to stop it.”

I brace myself for what I’m going to find when I go around the corner. Flashes of my life without Ellie bombard my mind.

“No!” I scream, when I see her lifeless body slumped over the table. I run to her, looking for a bullet wound, praying for her to wake.

A small amount of blood trickles from a cut on her head. I press my fingers to her neck and cry out in relief when I feel a pulse. Then I see her hands. Bile rises in my throat as I try to comprehend what I’m looking at. The entire backs of both of her hands are swollen and red with white patches and various sizes of blisters that seem to grow with every second.

“Oh, Jesus.” I pick her up and carry her into the other room just as police arrive, guns pointed.

“Put her down and put your hands up!” one yells.

---